


Gone with the Veil

by Ervil



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, Melodrama, Romance, Tragedy/Comedy, Trespasser
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-08
Packaged: 2018-08-13 03:07:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7960039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ervil/pseuds/Ervil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Turns out her boyfriend is an elven god. He would quibble over that interpretation but let's face it, he walked away, -again-, so he doesn't exactly get to have an opinion.</p>
<p>It's all proving to be just a little too much for Lavellan as she watches him step through the eluvian. Her sanity might have cracked somewhere along the way, or it could be concussion from any one of the numerous falls she's taken that day.</p>
<p>To cope, she resigns herself to playing the role the world seems to insist on thrusting upon her: the tragic heroine in love with the villain. It's all very romantic and dramatic, and perhaps just a little bit comical because if you don't laugh about it, you may as well let the Dread Wolf take you...</p>
<p>She may have to revise that last part.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Emerald Knight Rises

So.

Her lover is a god.

A trickster god of rebellion of all things, too. A legendary bad boy basically. The very one her Keeper always told her to stay away from.

It's kind of hot. 

Not kind of, it's Western Approach hot, and she'd muse upon just how captivating his thighs looked in that ancient golden armour if it weren't for the fact that the heart-shattering weight of his revelations crushing her very being is taking precedence for the moment.

Her left arm throbs, she realises, but cannot decide if it is because he held it or because the anchor is gone and he, and everything she's become, seems to have gone with it. It's probably the latter but she shies away from the thought and just scratches absently at her wrist. 

The eluvian ripples and fades then, denying her the respite of avoidance. He is gone, the anchor is gone, and she is barefaced and on the ground amidst qunari statuary at the heart of a breathtaking ruin of her people.

It feels very… melodramatic, actually, in a wind-caught-her-tears-as-she-beheld-her-lover-choose-doom-over-her sort of way that one might read about in Varric's novels. Romantic, tear-inducing, heart-wrenching, and all the other apt descriptions his publisher might print onto the cover.

It's actually perfect, she realises, because that is exactly what this is. The moment she stops distracting herself with all those nonsensical things, her chest aches in a way that tells her her ribcage is trying to do her a favour and crush her heart for good because putting it out of its misery is, in fact, the lesser evil.

She gives her anguished heart a break for a moment as she takes in her surroundings.

Copper-gilt leaves swirl upon a gentle breeze, graceful elven architecture crests the horizon with latticework turrets and slender archways, resolute elven statues bespeak pride and glory. Sumptuous and enchanting at once.

Mhm, definitely the setting of one of Varric's novels, she decides. 

Her, a betrayed maiden pining against her better judgement for the mysterious lover who claims to have, -technically-, never lied to her. Her charm so great that the whole being a god and wanting to destroy all she holds dear thing all but slipped from his mind.

Him, a sophisticated man with a dark, troubled past and a secret identity, torn between love and duty, convinced he must choose the latter because of -and- in spite of his love for the enthralling maiden all at once. 

Her, on her knees and in pain for more than one reason. "Var lath vir suledin" at her lips.

Him, with that mournful look that bodes ill for her heartfelt confession and not in the least because he has no faith in -her-.

He turns away, once again, and walks away with the gait of one struggling against the pull of the abyss that is, right that moment, her heart. Broken, where before he was confident, his meticulously-maintained facade cracked.

If she were a maiden from Varric's tale and not this shell of a person on the ground, how would he pen her reaction? 

Waterfalls whisper at the edge of her hearing while lengthening shadows of her marble entourage cloak her in a morbid shroud, wind is in her hair. 

Very well then, she decides with sudden calm and clarity, may as well play along. It is a mercy for her heart to hope rather than wallow in despair at the mere thought of his din'anshiral. There's the whole issue of what it entails for the world, too, but even looking that way right now threatens to draw her under and never let go.

So she will be the hand-clutched-to-her-chest-sorrow-in-her-eyes heroine.

Except, she won't be the kind who faints and needs saving. Neither was the woman in Swords and Shields after all. She's Dalish, lack of vallaslin notwithstanding, and if there's one thing her people are good at it's refusing to yield. They might be wrong about a myriad things, they apparently most definitely are, but they taught her to fight. 

She'll be the formidable Emerald Knight of legend because her wolf's gone astray and she needs to bring him to heel. And give his scruff a thorough shaking. And perhaps a spanking...

An elven metaphor that is not connected to romantic heroes who ultimately failed would work better, but for now the whole striking maiden with a wolf analogy works for her.

She gazes about, schooling her expression. From what she's learnt, he's been keeping a close eye on her. Some might call it spying on his competition. Or "disturbing". She chooses to go with "romantic". 

She rises resolute, mouth set in a thin line of grim determination, chin tilted upwards like she's spent a lifetime at Halamshiral. She lets the wind catch her hair just the right way for it to unfurl dramatically.

"Two can play the Game, ma vhenan", she murmurs in her best Vivienne impression and strolls away nonchalantly through the stone graveyard, resting one hand behind her back and then the other.


	2. Dancing over the Abyss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's easy to wax poetic about thoughts and feelings, less so about actual action. Lavellan's companions have no obligation to follow her dramatic lead either. Fiddling with this further to see if such disparity in tones can even work.

Jaw clenched and eyes fixed upon the mirror's shimmering surface, she refuses to dwell upon the stone horrors that outline her path. Even so, unseeing eyes follow her passage, vying for attention with their mere macabre presence. Step after measured step, she nears the eluvian, relieved that her bravado did not falter within the shadow of the Qun. Her fingers hover over the golden frame briefly, thoughts irresistibly drawn to where danger lurks. 

Only the qunari and her were allowed to pass, she realises. Had he no fear for her safety? 

But she needs not turn to know the answer, the testament to his power looms just beyond. She was never in danger, not for a moment, least not from them. There is more to this, she knows, but to ruminate upon it now while her friends linger in uncertainty would be unkind. 

Her resolve to remain strong is torn asunder the moment she passes through the eluvian and into the familiar presence of her confidants, their relieved expressions and welcoming smiles undoing her. She near steps on Dorian before she can halt her steps, her friend all but attached to the mirror's surface in a futile attempt to coerce it into submission. 

"There she is!" he manages before she collapses into his arms, tears already trailing down her cheeks as if her pain had been held back only by the unspoken promise to be given its due at first opportunity. She tries to reign it in but her lips betray her as much as her eyes and she finds herself in the midst of a confession instead.

"Shit, Sparkles," Varric shakes his head. "I don't think I even want to collect on that bet now."

"Told you they're not doing it on top of the qunari corpses," Sera weighs in helpfully. "He probably said things. Big elfy words. Would make anyone cry."

"There, there," Dorian soothes. "You will have to slow down, you are making little sense."

"So, what happened?" Varric inquires quietly after another moment of fervent, tears-embellished storytelling directed at Dorian's chest.

"It would appear the Anchor has finally claimed her sanity," Dorian returns over his shoulder, "If I'm making it out correctly… she wants to lick a god's thigh, some statues condemned her, and she wants a pet wolf? Perhaps not necessarily in that order."

Hand banging against her thigh, Sera near laughs herself off a rock. "Lady Inquisitor and the Maker's Thigh, would make all the prissy sisters burst into flames!"

Their levity is a stark contrast to her sorrow as she clutches at Dorian, her left hand increasingly distressed. She tries to find the right words for the depth of her loss and longing but none come, it is as if all reason has abandoned her, unable to remain where so little else did. 

Dorian presses a handkerchief into her hand and halts, his hand gripping her own. "What happened to the Anchor?" he asks warily.

She wipes at her eyes then, spent for the moment, and looks to her friends, steeling herself for their sake if not her own. Varric looks uncommonly disturbed, Sera bears that scowl that bodes ill for any conversation concerning magic, while Dorian's hands are already examining her arm, tendrils of his power whispering across her skin.

How is she to tell them when she is bereft of words even for her own grief, so small and insignificant when set against the magnitude of his designs for Thedas? To tell them is to change the course of all of their lives for none will be safe when his plans come to fruition. 

When? -If-, she insists to herself. If! To permit herself to think otherwise is to accept they have already lost. He would bring the sky down upon them...

Her vision darkens then as she plummets somewhere her mind refuses to follow, shadows pressing in from all sides. It is too much. It is too much for any one person to bear. A sweltering heat envelops her, coalescing beneath the armour upon her neck and chest in droplets of sweat. Someone's warm, too warm grip permits her to sink to the ground and then beyond, into a pit of despair that denies her air.

In between haggard breaths someone continues to squeeze her left hand, repeating a question over and over. 

The Anchor.

The thought stays with her, affixing itself so firmly in her mind there is little room for anything but impressions that dart away when she tries to pursue them. Slowly, the blindness recedes and after a spell she realises the world is no longer spinning out of control.

The Anchor. The Breach. The Veil. 

Doom upon all the world.

She has done all that before and the stakes were no less, nor the enemy any less daunting. If anything, this one at least is tantalizing, rather than traumatizing, to behold.

An amused snort escapes her at the absurdity of her thoughts and her gaze turns upwards but the scene before her baffles her with its inconsistency with her recollections. Everyone is moving and everything is in disarray, and it takes specks of warm blood falling upon her face to startle her awake into the mayhem.

She throws herself forwards, half-drifting through the Fade and reality alike in a frosted blur, carrying herself across the battlefield to halt gracefully on its opposite end, hands to her sides to maintain balance.

Four qunari, stragglers, two already still, her mind dissects the scene with cold detachment.

She hesitates briefly with her fingers to her face, ready to wipe the blood off but then, driven by a spark of delirious madness, she smears the blood from one cheek to the other over her nose. The metallic scent is like lyrium singing in her veins.

She glides upon the magical current forwards, sliding to a stop on her knee behind one of the agents, spirit blade in hand. She arcs it upwards sowing death while a spear thuds against her barrier, empowering it rather than dispersing.

She rises, dances away, and brings down the skies upon them, scintillating bolts thundering her own wrath. She twists the ring upon her finger with her thumb, vanishing only to reappear upon a shock trooper forcing Dorian into a corner. 

I have done all of that before, flits through her mind, and came out victorious.

She wraps herself in the Fade, letting him hammer into her barrier and bounce back, then traces a fire glyph at his feet and forces him into it with elegant bladework. As fire erupts beneath them, she tries to displace herself, hide within the Fade but the Anchor fails to respond and she is thrown back, the blast tearing her barrier to pieces.

She lands on a knee a few steps back, anchor-less hand uncomfortably numb and singed from the fiery display. The shrine is still now, corpses sprawl at their feet, so she allows her thoughts to drift to the Anchor and, for the first time, to how interwoven her magic was with his. 

All that time, she muses, connected, entangled, despite his absence. The very notion is endearing enough that she brings her hand to her chest but not even a trace of emerald light remains. What little of him she had was gone, the lingering unease in her palm the only memento, one about as useful as the statues in his honour looking down on her from each corner. 

She forces the thoughts away. Therein darkness lies and she cannot afford to revel in it again, the smell of blood still fresh in the air.

"You look so much like Hawke now, it's not even funny." Varric saunters over, Bianca receiving a thorough cleaning in his hands.

Emerald Knight, she tells herself. Emerald Knight.

"I am no longer in danger, the Anchor has been dealt with," she offers matter-of-factly. "It isn't safe here so let's leave the whole story for when we return to the Winter Palace, shall we?"

"Never knew I'd be so relieved to be heading back there," is all Varric says and she is thankful he knows better than to ask about Solas for the time being. "Come on Buttercup, leave the man's helmet be."

"I want to sneak it into Vivvy's wardrobe, show 'er how big 'er head's gotten," Sera laughs as she struggles recovering one of the enormous horned helmets off a fallen qunari.

"If such things could just be "dealt with", the Templars would have seized it off you the moment you dropped onto their heads out of the Fade, my friend," Dorian whispers at her side. "There's more to it than that, isn't there?"

"So much more," she responds with a weary sigh.


End file.
